


Heaven on his side

by pocketbookangel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Angels, Angst, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Fluff, Guardian Angels, Happy Ending, M/M, Soulmates, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-11
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 09:19:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1935435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pocketbookangel/pseuds/pocketbookangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is assigned to act as Sherlock's guardian angel, but it's not a simple task.</p><p>Angel AU of the pilot/ASIP</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven on his side

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cleflink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleflink/gifts).



> After trying and failing to write a Sherlock version of 'The Lion's Mane' from the killer's POV (outsider POV & tentacles), I decided to try one of the other prompts: wing!fic. Happy Summer Holmestice!
> 
> (And very special thanks to my anonymous beta. It was much appreciated.)

Everything hurt. Cold from the warehouse’s rough concrete floor seeped through his shirt and into his bones. Shirt, bones, it was all wrong. John opened his eyes. A figure made of celestial fire with wings of lightning and flames loomed over him, blinding his eyes and making the shadows even darker.

“You?” John rubbed his eyes, and the fearsome being resolved itself into the shape of a balding man in a fussy waistcoat.

“You have been called,” the Angel of the Lord announced.

“I feel awful…is this a human body?” John asked. His muscles and bones were rebelling against the cold, which was completely wrong because as an incorporeal being of pure energy existing outside every dimension except time, he shouldn’t have bones or muscles.

“The devil is coming for Sherlock Holmes and you need to be there to stop him.”

“Am I a human?” John examined his hands. Brown, strong, covered in fine lines that would eventually become wrinkles. Not old, not young. He brought his hands together quickly, and felt the blood tingling beneath his skin.

“I told you, the devil—”

“Right, I heard you. Why are you dressed like that?” John tried to stand. “And why are you so much taller than me? That doesn’t seem right.”

“You are one of our best Guardians, all of the souls under your care make their allotted threescore and ten, with some continuing to flourish until they make a century. Your last charge, Miss Agatha Chessington-Smith, born 1905, died 2010. Very impressive.”

“Is she dead then? She must be, or I wouldn’t be here. Agatha wasn’t the easiest.” John exhaled heavily, noticing how he could feel his own breath moving. “Do you know how many cigarettes I had to knock out of her mouth? I know we’re not supposed to do that, free will, but she didn’t really want to smoke—cigarettes just go so well with jazz.” A party in her friend’s flat, furniture pushed aside for dancing, clouds of smoke darkening the ceiling as trumpets blared. The reality was tattered and faded as John’s newly human mind couldn’t hold the party and the warehouse at the same time. It wanted to separate the years until one followed the other in a predictable and obedient line.

“Your flexible attitude is partly why you were chosen. Sherlock Holmes has proved to be highly resistant to divine messages. We sent a plague of frogs to his flat; he dissected them. We set one of the privet hedges in Portman Square on fire; he walked past and didn’t even call emergency. I myself decided to take up residence here on earth and play the role of his brother; he refuses to listen to my wise counsel. In fact, he may have blocked my number, although that could be the fault of the company. It’s unwise to ascribe intent when it could easily be bloody incompetence.”

“What do I need to do?” John tried to take a step, but he could feel gravity working against his entire body.

“Russell Square Gardens, shortly before 10. You’ll meet an old school friend, after that, it is up to you. Best not mention my name.” The Angel of the Lord unfurled his massive wings made of lightning and flames and vanished.

“You didn’t tell me your name,” John grumbled to himself.

Finding Russell Square Gardens was easier than he expected. John’s former charge had led an irregular life with many frequent changes in address, often in the middle of the night, so John knew London’s streets and hidden courtyards even though his feet had never touched the pavement before. The city was larger and smellier than it had appeared to be when he could float above it or through it. London’s air settled on his skin, leaving a thin coat of dirt and microbes and distant stardust, all invisible to his human eyes.

With one glance, Sherlock knew more about John than John knew about himself. “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Sorry?” John listened to Sherlock’s deductions, dazzled by the intelligence and vitality behind his every word. He connected the physical details to their meanings, almost as if his thoughts could move through multiple dimensions like an angel’s could.

Sherlock was right about “John Watson’s” background, but he missed one little fact. The limp wasn’t psychosomatic—John was still having trouble with gravity.

Watching Sherlock move through the world was unlike watching any other human. John had been observing humans since they first crawled out of the antediluvian seas and would be there until they reached the stars, but he knew he would never again see such a combination of sharp, cold intelligence mixed with innocence. Sherlock moved through the darkness of his world, but it didn’t seem to mark him.

Sherlock had warned John that he played the violin at all hours, but it wasn’t until the end of their first week together that a cloud of sweet, slightly archaic melodies carried him off to sleep. The sound of the violin brought back pleasant memories of times when the world danced to the music of the spheres. Waking up to atonal, neurotic screeching was a different matter.

“Bad night?” John asked.

Sherlock continued playing as if he didn’t hear the question. There was printed sheet music in front of him, so this wasn’t an original composition. Knowing these unhappy sounds weren’t composed by Sherlock made John feel a little better. Finally, after one last aggressive double stop, Sherlock set down his bow.

“He hasn’t called,” Sherlock said.

“Who…” Sherlock had said very clearly he wasn’t interested in relationships of any kind and didn’t have friends.

“I’m not saying serial suicides are impossible, there have been cases, girls’ schools, army bases, but not like this. The three victims must have some connection. He knows where to find me, so why hasn’t he tried?”

“Maybe he’s busy? You could phone him.”

A light switched on behind Sherlock’s eyes turning them a stunning blue. “I knew there was a reason I keep you around.” He picked up his phone and his laptop.

“Have you ever seen a press conference at Scotland Yard? Usually they’re the insomniac’s friend, but not today. Not today.”

Individual faces were barely visible on the grainy video feed, but it was enough for Sherlock. “W.R.O.N.G.” His fingers gleefully hit the laptop’s keys.

“Is that legal, what you’re doing?”

“Probably not. I haven’t really checked. Does it bother you?”

“Should it? It’s only the Metropolitan Police.” The poor audio turned the reporters and policemen into a swarm of mosquitos around a watering hole. The buzz increased every time Sherlock pressed send.

The press conference ended with Thank you. The man who had received Sherlock’s messages looked directly at the camera and John had the uncomfortable feeling that he could see them.

Sherlock ostentatiously turned off his phone and picked up his violin. “They need me,” he said.

“Do you take requests?” John hummed a few notes from one of his former charge’s favourite songs. Night and day, you are the one. Only you beneath the moon, under the sun. Sherlock’s mood had changed, but John didn’t want to risk a return to dodecaphony.

“That’s more for dancing, isn’t it?” Sherlock spun around, holding his violin as if it were a partner.

“You look—” John couldn’t help laughing.

“Do you know how to dance?” Sherlock set down his violin with a flourish.

“Don’t tell me you missed me on Strictly Come Dancing. Leg, remember?” Gravity was still causing problems. Every time John thought he was used to it, the sheer improbability of moving across the surface of a planet knocked him off his feet.

John knew Sherlock was tall, but his true height was a little intimidating when they were standing less than a foot apart. Sherlock grabbed John’s left hand and put his right hand on his waist. “Put your right hand on my shoulder,” Sherlock said, and John was too surprised to say no.

“Step back with your right, back with your left. Right, left, quick right, quick left.” There was such exuberance in Sherlock’s movements and a lightness to his steps. Sherlock may have considered his body to be a mere vessel for his intellect, but he didn’t have the memory of existing only as spirit to keep him from feeling truly alive.

“If you’re trying to give a lesson, shouldn’t you be teaching me to lead?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Quick step, quick step!”

John stepped quickly, enjoying Sherlock’s confident movements and the feeling of his hands guiding him. As they moved together, there was a brief moment when John felt at home, like this human body belonged to him. However, the lesson ended when Sherlock’s ambitions outpaced the amount of available floor space and he quick stepped John into the sofa.

“One more time?” Sherlock hadn’t let go of John’s hand.

\--

Sherlock’s mood didn’t truly lighten until a fourth body was discovered and the game was on.

Under other circumstances, Angelo’s would be a romantic location, all dim lights and good wine, but for Sherlock it was a hunter’s hide where he could lay in wait for the murderer. “Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?” he asked.

“Delivery vans?”

It had been a rhetorical question. “Delivery vans are obvious. Delivery vans are boring. More importantly, they’re not invisible. We’re looking for the perfect murder weapon of the modern age, the invisible car.”

They watched a taxi slowly drive past. Sherlock smiled. “And here it is.”

The amateur theatricals that followed would hardly convince a child, let alone the kind of murderer they were hunting. If this was Sherlock’s usual technique, it was amazing he’d made it to thirty without being knifed. He flailed and hiccupped his way over to the taxi, and demanded to be taken to Baker Street.

It was a comic performance, but instincts developed over years of guiding humans as they staggered about foolishly made John want to intervene. Sherlock collapsed in the street and the cab driver helped him into his taxi.

“All part of the plan,” Angelo said. John ignored him and ran out into the street. Sherlock’s plan had clearly gone wrong. There were too many cars on the street, too many people, and above it all floated the sickly odour of corruption and brimstone.

The driver of that taxi wasn’t human.

John could feel Sherlock calling for his help. He focused on that need, tried to make his thoughts race to Sherlock’s side. Where are you? He saw an empty white building with long corridors, the cab driver leading Sherlock into an empty room, but the location refused to locate itself clearly in his mind. He couldn’t fail, not now.

\--

The cab driver was holding up two vials. Sherlock took one, held it up to the light, and studied the colourful powder inside the capsule.

“Sherlock!” John screamed. He knew the answer to the terrible riddle: both. This was the final game. The demon who had possessed the cab driver’s body had found his true victim. John kept screaming Sherlock’s name, but the other window was too far away. His weak human voice couldn’t be heard and no matter how fast he ran, his clumsy human body would never make it to Sherlock’s side. He needed a miracle.

“Please.” He concentrated all of his energy, all of his need into the air in front of him. He forced those human synapses to think, to connect to the power that was greater than himself. Dimensions unfolded around him, the wings that had protected so many unfurled with the severe glitter of sunlight over ice. John Watson was an insignificant creature, but he carried all of Heaven’s power behind him. A divine weapon formed in his hands: a bow carved from the oldest of trees. He drew back the string, the bolt of pure energy flew—too fast for the human eye to see, it smashed through the window and shattered the demon’s heart. The glass vial dropped to the floor. Sherlock was safe.

John’s body trembled and his limbs felt weak, almost as weak as they had during those first few moments in the warehouse. He sat down in the stairwell and listened to the sirens wailing outside.

“Sherlock is out of danger for now, but the devil takes many forms.”

John didn’t open his eyes. He didn’t need to see the Angel of the Lord’s disdainful glance, he could hear it.

“Might I suggest learning to use human weapons? You’ve taken about ten years off that body’s life with your little stunt.”

The unearthly glow that accompanied the Angel’s disappearance turned the room white. John made his way outside to where Sherlock was talking with the police inspector. His eyes had the glazed expression that meant he was in two places at once, the crime scene and the retelling. Sherlock’s gaze sharpened at the sight of John at the edge of the crowd, and John smiled. Sherlock’s eyes were soft and curious under his dark eyelashes, and John tried to imagine just how close his speculations were to reality.

The next day, John paid his first visit to DI Lestrade’s office at Scotland Yard. “Thanks for coming in. I’ve written something up, it’d be really helpful if you could sign it.” Lestrade pushed a piece of paper across his desk for John’s approval.

“Thanks. I’m really sorry I can’t be more help—I wish I could have been there sooner.” John scrawled his name across the bottom of the form.

“We haven’t been able to recover the bullet,” Lestrade said casually. “I wonder why that is.”

John looked at Lestrade and knew. Of course Sherlock would already have a Guardian; he probably had more than one.

“How are you doing? Are you going back now it’s over?” Lestrade asked.

“It’s fine. No, it’s better, it’s good.” John remembered the brilliant light in Sherlock’s eyes as he surveyed a crime scene and the pure joy in his dancing. John realised this time was different. He didn’t want to merely protect Sherlock’s life, he wanted to protect his happiness as well.

“I think I’m going to be staying for a while,” John said.


End file.
